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Chapters (47)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. TEXT LOGO PAGE
  3. ABOUT THE BOOK
  4. DEDICATION
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  43. CONSOLATION CHAPTER 1
  44. CONSOLATION CHAPTER 2
  45. ALSO BY
  46. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  47. NEW MARKETING PAGE

‘Don’t trust anyone,’ Louise Rennie said, the conviction hard in her.

Hirsch made one last try. ‘I have a police friend named Rosie whose job is investigating corrupt police. I trust her. She’ll find somewhere safe for you and keep it under the radar until we find a more permanent solution.’

‘No.’ Louise went rigid. ‘No police.’

‘We’re not all villains, Louise.’

‘Even if that’s true,’ she retorted, ‘Mum said the police have to follow procedures. Things get written down and put in files. You can’t keep a lid on it.’

Hirsch pictured Denise Rennie talking to her kids deep into the night. Her paranoia catching: Don’t trust anyone. Except the family had put some trust in Craig Washburn. And right now, Hirsch thought, I’ve also been granted a smidgin of trust.

‘Louise, are you going to grow old in this cave?’

A cheap shot, and she was disgusted. ‘There’s only one way we’ll show ourselves.’

‘What’s that?’

‘When you lock up everyone responsible. All of them.’

Hirsch thought about it. Did he keep their location a secret for now? He visualised the killer more as a force than a person—malign but diffuse, floating out in the back country somewhere, poised at any second to take on a clear shape and pounce. And a checklist had been drilled into him at the academy. Before acting, a good cop will ask: will it pass scrutiny? Is it lawful? Is it ethical? Is it fair?

He didn’t get far with his thinking because just then the creek started to sing. The rounded stones below the dugout entrance were tocking, scraping, grinding. Louise scuttled to the lip of the dugout, came back at once, hyperventilating. ‘It’s him. The one who…the one on Christmas Eve.’

Hirsch scrambled half-bent to the entrance and dropped to his belly. He peered out.

Wayne Flann.

29

29

THE WINDSCREEN FLASH Hirsch had seen from the road: Flann’s ute. Reminding himself to study a topographical map should the creek ever feature in some future crime, search party or picnic, he watched Flann cast about, alert, as he receded in the direction of Craig Washburn’s camp. Flann was dressed as before, the rifle strapped to one shoulder. His T-shirt was dark with sweat and dotted with flies. Dust on his jeans. Without the rifle, you might overlook him, a bush drongo like any other. To Hirsch he was as sharp and poised as a dart.

Flann disappeared around a bend. He’ll see the police Toyota before long, Hirsch thought, and wonder what it was doing there. Or he’ll spot the dugout entrance on his way back.

Hirsch shuffled back to the others, murmured, ‘Stay here, don’t show yourselves to anyone, don’t make a sound. If anyone other than me calls out your names, ignore them.’